A Belated Christmas Story
by scriptmanip
Summary: You can't think of anything you'd not do for her. All she's got to do is ask – Emily's voice, coupled with her incredibly lovely face, puts her at a horribly unfair advantage for getting her way.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hello there, you lovely lot! I wasn't able to finish this prior to the holidays, but then I thought: is there ever really a bad time for posting xmas!Naomily fanfic? And the answer to that is: of course fucking not.

I hope you've all recovered from your respective holidays. I trust they were equally as lovely as my own, and filled with excessive amounts of alcohol just as any family gathering should be. Enjoy this little two-shot, as a belated xmas gift from me to you. Second half should be up shortly.

Can't remember if I've mentioned this previously [no digs on my memory, naomilylove], but let's just assume everything I write from here on out exists within the ROYL universe, yeah? Good.

* * *

It's one of a hundred, fucking reasons you've not ever wanted a girlfriend.

Or a boyfriend, for that matter. Though, you've a sneaking suspicion a bloke would be a bit less-complicated to navigate, given that you've always considered them to be exceptionally _simple_ creatures.

First, it was the gift.

A fucking, treacherous endeavour you'd attempted to be reasonable about, reminding yourself on numerous occasion that exchanging gifts is just some manipulative, capitalist tradition for some bloody, religious holiday anyway. Reminding yourself that for several years of your childhood, you'd been kept from recognising it in any capacity.

Of course your mum's since softened, what with the tree now lighted and trimmed in the lounge, and apparently, you're at the mercy of your shared genes and have followed suit.

You'd even thought to bring Cook along on the shop, to lighten the mood and keep yourself from overthinking it. But it took all of fifteen minutes and a handful of lewd comments about shaved fannies for you to suggest he fuck off and leave you to battle the crowds at Cabot Circus on your own.

Then, it was the ice rink in Millennium Square.

Cupping your hands around the warm paper of your hot cocoa, you'd stayed on the perimeter while Emily and Katie showed off their marginal skating talent. Emily would circle round, pouting her lip pitifully at your lack of participation before being hauled off by her egregious flesh-and-blood.

You couldn't give a toss about the lights – a terribly unnecessary waste of energy, according to your mum, and though you'd _never_ admit to sharing one of her opinions, you sort of agree – but find yourself stood beside Emily for the switch-on ceremony at Cribbs Causeway just the same.

Her face lights up so brightly, almost competing with the city's twinkling lights, that when she grabs for your mittened hand, you nearly let slip your scowling disapproval for such displays and kiss her right there amidst hundreds of people you've never met.

You can't think of anything you'd not do for her. All she's got to do is ask – Emily's voice, coupled with her incredibly lovely face, puts her at a horribly unfair advantage for getting her way. Since the end of term – declaring your love and the whole, sodding spectacle of it all – you've been manipulated into doing all sorts of things, that much is clear.

You just can't work out what's worse – that Emily's had this effect on you so quickly, or that you're well-aware of her manipulations and willingly bend to them anyway.

In some ways it's like being blindfolded – some helpless, anxious feeling – while simultaneously sensing Emily's hot breath against your neck, her open mouth pressed to your skin when you least expect it. In that it would all be incredibly, fucking annoying, that sudden loss of control, if it weren't also the thing making you happier than you've been your whole, miserable life.

But, you've got to draw the line somewhere. And so you have done.

Which has led to this – a Christmas Eve row with your girlfriend. One you're trying to have discreetly, hid up in your room with music playing softly while you speak – terse and agitated – into your phone.

"No offense, but it _does_ sound awful."

It's obviously the wrong thing to say, and not at all a clever exit strategy out of this sodding argument, so you flop back onto your bed and clench your eyes tight when Emily's scoff cuts through your mobile speaker.

"Oh right, I'll not take offense to that in the least, Naomi, thanks. They're not Sir Henry fucking Wellcome, but they're my _family_."

"Right, yeah, I know, but—"

"But you're still not going to come, are you?"

An exhale pushes past your lips as you open your eyes to the ceiling. "Your mum _hates_ me, Emily. And Katie—"

"Since when do you care what Katie thinks about _anything_?"

She's grasping at straws. And an earlier version of yourself might have jumped on the opportunity to say so. But then a chill runs down your arms, and you shiver at the sound of Emily's insistence.

You'd rather she were there, in your room, so that you could see the angry creases of her brow. So that you could hear the pitch of her voice as she throws it about the bedroom. Even your fights are better when Emily is with you. Everything, you concede helplessly, is better when Emily is with you.

But, it's not going that way. Not tonight.

So instead you just mumble, "I don't." Crossing your room in three strides, you then crack open your bedroom door, and a scent of cloves and mulling spices wafts up the staircase. It's quiet on the line for a few beats, and you wonder if Emily's finally given up. You gently try for a compromise. "Maybe tomorrow, after you have your family thing we could—"

"Yeah, maybe." Her voice is so flat, you almost flinch.

"Em, come on."

"Sorry, but they're waiting on me to start the first video. Katie's shouting up the stairs. I have to go."

When the door to your bedroom clicks shut, you lean against it, a sudden, throbbing sensation registering in your chest that you later realise is your heartbeat. Loud and strong and persistent.

"Oh," you manage, swallowing when it feels like your voice might crack. "So, we'll just talk tomorrow? I mean, I'll ring you in the morning?"

"Sure."

"Emily—"

"Yeah, of course. I mean, we'll talk then. But I have to go, okay?"

You get as far as pressing your lips together, readying to tell Emily how much you miss her, how insanely you love her despite not bending to this one, fucking thing, when the line clicks and you realise she's ended the call.

So you say _'shit'_ instead, tipping your head against the door at your back.

* * *

"Will we be seeing any of the little one tonight?"

Your mum's stood near the hob, her cheeks already flushed and her complexion cheery, making you suspect she's been serving herself several generous 'tastes' of wine during the mulling process.

Your eyes hit the ceiling as you slouch against the table's edge with a loud sigh. "Not very fucking likely."

"Oh dear," she sighs, swirling her wooden ladle and looking down into the bubbling pot like a disheartened, blonde witch. "Not having it out with her, are you?"

"No, not—" you consider denying it altogether, a reflex you've honed when it comes to questions about your personal life, sighing again when your mum looks back to catch your eye just before you've dropped your chin to your chest. But then, fuck it really, because it's already been a shit evening. "Not _purposefully_."

"Come on then," your mum says lightly, turning back to the bubbling pot of holiday wine. "Fetch the mugs."

* * *

You don't mean to tell her much of anything, let alone _everything_. But then your mum's apparently laced the mulled wine with bitter truth serum, hidden amongst the spices of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves.

In the sitting room, sprawled on one sofa while your mum's curled into her reading chair, you tell her, "I don't want to wear a bloody Christmas jumper – I don't even _own_ a bloody Christmas jumper – and I can hardly stand being in that house for ten minutes let alone an evening's worth of holiday festivities. Not to mention, I would never ask Emily to endure the unkindness of someone like her fucking mum or that cunt of a sister."

You've begun gesticulating more freely, flinging your hands and arms about while you rage on, while your mum continues to sit calmly, a gentle smile held firm on her lips. It starts to feel better, expressing these thoughts _finally_ without restraint, like a release of toxins from your bloodstream.

But the high is short-lived, followed rapidly by a leaden guilt. Because you think of Emily. Of how badly she wants to solidify what you have into something real, into something concrete. She wants to make the idea of you and her something more tangible that she can grasp onto. And girlfriends exchange presents, and go ice skating, and attend Christmas Eve dinners with each other's families.

You're meant to do the things that make your skin crawl and your stomach plummet, just to make her happy.

Your face must fall considerably as your thoughts swirl, because before you've voiced a single word, your mum just says, "Being in love doesn't mean you're expected to bend at every whim, Naomi."

"_Jesus_, mum." Your eyes snap up in sudden terror. "I never said I was in love."

Your mum knowing that you have a girlfriend is one thing. Knowing the contents of your heart, feels terribly invasive.

But your mum hardly makes an effort to contain her bright, bubbly laughter. "Well, you needn't tell me about your blonde hair either, love. It's as clear as looking at you, isn't it?"

With a grunt and a scowl, you lean forward placing your elbows on your knees and your face in your hands.

Her voice is soothing, even when you wish it weren't. "You're going to come to your own conclusions about this relationship with Emily – the ways in which you act and react to one another." Your mum stands and reaches over for your empty mug, and you watch her through the gaps in your fingers. "But regardless of your feelings for her, it can't be all push and no pull, Naomi."

She pats your shoulder on her way into the kitchen, and then you can hear the mugs being refilled. Getting drunk, even if it's with your mum, in the comfort of your own home, wearing your favourite pyjamas and mismatched socks is a perfectly lovely way to spend the night before Christmas. You can't think of anything worse, in contrast, than being spitefully hosted by Jenna Fitch.

So you can't quite figure how it is that you suddenly feel like you've made the wrong decision.

"Maybe I'll just pop over to Emily's and explain things a bit better. Tell her why it is that I can't do the whole holidays-with-the-family sort of thing," you say when your mum re-enters the room.

Your face is creased in thought, and you're staring intently at the fireplace mantle, hardly expecting your mum to weigh in on what's essentially an internal debate you just so happen to be having aloud.

"It's still early, isn't it?" you say, tugging at the sleeve of your top to reveal the face of your gold watch.

"You want to go to the Fitch home and explain to Emily why it is that you didn't want to go to … the Fitch home?"

You blink twice. First at the fire and then at your mum. The wine must be making your thinking cloudy because it definitely sounds like she's now speaking in riddles like she's bloody Effy Stonem.

"Huh? No, I just – forget it." It strikes you then, like a blunt object against the back of your head, that you've just spilt out a great deal of information about your _girlfriend_ to your _mum_. The thought almost makes you shudder, and so to distract from it you stand quickly and run both hands through your hair.

Your boots are by the front door, and you slip into them not bothering to tie the laces before snatching your coat as well. You're struggling to get your left arm into the fucking thing when two hands reach for the sleeve, helping you to thread your arm through.

"I won't be long alright?"

It feels awkward, saying such things to your mum, who's never much asked for information on your whereabouts or showed concern for your safe return. She then eyes you strangely, making the moment even more intensely uncomfortable.

"What?"

"Just remembering what it was like, being young and impetuous."

Your intent is to sound condescending when you tell her, "You're such a fucking sop." But, your lips twitch into a smile before you can stop it from happening, and so your mum just laughs and squeezes your hand.

Besides, you're clearly _not_ being impetuous, having spent the entire night thinking and talking about noting but Emily and the situation in which you now find yourself. So it's hardly a snap decision, to head off into the night in hopes of smoothing things over with her, despite how rushed you feel to see her. You'll not back down on what you _still_ believe to be too large a request, and you'll not stay for videos and hot chocolates no matter how adorable Emily will likely be in her pyjamas and freshly combed hair. You can't give her this ask, not yet. There's a part of you still clinging to your ability to deny her, even if it's dwindling fiercely every moment you're with her.

But, there's another part of you that hopes Emily will concede to not getting her way, and keep you anyway.

Returning the gesture, you squeeze once to your mum's warm hand before heading into the damp, chilled air of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

It's six steps, give or take, from the front porch of your house to the end of the driveway. You make it only three before her figure appears from around a darkened corner, effectively scaring the shit out of you both.

"_Jesus!_" You pull at the opening on your coat where it gaps over your chest just as Emily's _'fucking hell'_ rings in your ears. "Em, you're—"

"Where the fuck have you been?"

She's near tears, or it's possibly the residual of her already crying that's made her voice tremor and her eyes glisten. Emily doesn't stop moving until she's directly in front of you, looking up at you with an expression you've not yet learned to read and breathing heavily, like she's just run the entire distance from her house to yours.

"What? Here, home," you say with a hard swallow because you can't really be certain she's not about to lash out at any moment. "I've been home."

"I've tried to ring you a hundred fucking times."

It hits you then, like a sucker punch to your chest. Fear. Emily's eyes are to the brim with it.

"Shit," you realise. "My phone's – I left it in my room, and I've just been sat with mum actually."

A fraction of the fear lifts then as Emily regards you with some lovely mixture of shock and amusement. "You have?"

"Yeah," you answer, feeling it might even be okay to offer a tentative smile.

As soon as you do though, allow your lips to turn upwards just so, Emily's mild amusement vanishes. "I thought – I really thought you were upset with me."

You can't respond for long seconds, any breath in your lungs now caught somewhere you can't locate. And so you stand there, mouth dumbly hanging open, and eyes wide.

"I just – I felt like such a prick," Emily continues, "and as soon as I'd gone downstairs, Katie started in on everything. Fucking celebrating the fact you wouldn't be around, which only encouraged my mum to join in. They're like a fucking Greek chorus or something, the two of them, and my mum is just so – so fucking _awful_." Emily moves forward, stepping into you and tentatively reaching for your hand that's gone stiff and numb from the cold night air. "And I'm sat there feeling like the world's worst, fucking girlfriend for expecting you to be around either of them." Emily sways her head back and forth while closing her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, you almost shudder. Her words start to rush out then, "I'm sorry. And I just wanted to tell you that, but then you didn't answer, and I started to worry and then I just had to see you and make sure that—"

Her lips are chilled, even against your own which are no doubt cold as well from the damp air, always heavy with threatening rain. Emily's the one who actually shudders, falling against you when you pull a bit too urgently on her neck and shoulder. Her skin is cold to the touch, your hand making its way along the nape of her neck and into her hair.

"You're freezing," you say between kisses, whispering the words onto her lips before kissing them again.

"My pyjamas got a bit damp on the way here," she says through a shiver, and you open your coat so she can press into you, wrapping her arms around your back and laying her head on your chest. "I'm sorry. For before."

It's still hard to answer her, what with your head spinning in twelve different directions, because the unfamiliarity of this dynamic is massively jarring. You're accustomed to playing the role of the girl who cocks up, apologises profusely, and then lives in constant hope that your girlfriend – this girl who you love ridiculously – will forgive you. You've been living this set of contingencies on repeat. For ages.

So to have Emily come to _you_, heart in hand and a real, visible fear in her eyes, repeating apologies and timid with regret, is wholly unsettling. A role reversal for which you're entirely unprepared.

So you only squeeze her more tightly, nuzzle into her hair, and recite what you've heard her say so many times. "It's okay."

But Emily leans back to see your eyes, and reiterates, "I mean it."

"Yeah, Em, I know. It's really – it's okay."

She's still punishing herself, you can tell by the way her teeth grip to her bottom lip and the way her brow creases. "It's just, you'd never ask that of me, you know? I want you around, like, _all_ the time, but it's selfish – asking you to be there when my mum and Katie can be so fucking horrible."

You have to laugh at that, a chuckle slipping out into the slight space between you, as your eyes fall to the dark street behind Emily's head.

"What's funny about that?"

"Nothing just – well, I was sharing a similar opinion with my mum earlier," you tell her.

Emily's face, always lovely in any context, transforms yet again, now a broad grin lighting her features. "You were talking to your _mum_? About _me_?"

Your eyes narrow then, a disgruntled frown forming at the memory. "Technically, I feel she drugged me, so the conversation wasn't exactly of my own volition."

Emily only laughs and kisses your downturned mouth. "That why your lips are all purple? Slipped some alcohol in your fermented grape juice when you weren't looking, did she?"

"Yes. That's precisely what she did."

Emily's nodding, smiling with her eyes still locked with yours, as she leans in to kiss you, this time with a bit more holiday fanfare. Her hands slide over your shoulder blades, leaving a trail of chilled bumps on your skin in their wake. Your mouth opens and Emily pushes into it as your hands grab loose fistfuls of her soft, red hair.

Her voice, low and soft and pressed against your lips, whispers your name with some desperation. "Naoms."

"Yeah," you say without opening your eyes.

"Lend me some dry clothes, will you?"

Your eyes do fly open then, the realisation that you're actually stood out in the cold in the middle of your fucking driveway, suddenly hitting you. "Shit, yeah. Of course – come on, let's get inside."

It's only after you've stepped into the warmth of the house, the front door clicked shut behind you, that a secondary realisation registers, belatedly. Which is that getting Emily _into_ dry clothes, also means getting her _out_ of the damp ones.

A stupid, giddy smile spreads onto your lips at the thought. And you have to turn away, quickly pulling Emily up the stairs behind you, so that you'll not be forced to admit how even after almost four months with her, you're still a bit retarded when it comes to being a lesbian. Especially when, considering the tone of her voice when she'd said it, you think that's the very first thing Emily had meant to imply.

"Is that you, Naomi?"

Your mum's back to her impeccably timed intrusions, it seems. The kind that grate at your skin because of how bloody pleased she always sounds to have derailed your intentions.

"Oh, Emily! How lovely – we didn't think you'd turn up."

"Hi," Emily answers, still gripping to your hand where you've been forced to pause halfway up the staircase. "Happy Christmas, Gina."

"Oh, thank you, dear. Would you like some wine?"

"Emily needs dry clothes, mum, fuck's sake. Didn't you notice how we're sort of on our way upstairs?" You can't help the edge to your voice, and feel only minimally guilty for the childish outburst when Emily tugs slightly at your joined hands and scowls up at you. "Sorry, but we'll come back down once she's changed, alright?"

Your mum backs up with her hands raised, a peaceful surrender. You almost sigh in relief that the entire exchange hasn't left you detained, mid step, for too long and that your mum's managed not to say anything intentionally suggestive as she so often does.

But then, just as your backs are turned to continue towards your room, and because she can't fucking help herself, she says cheerily, "Take your time getting sorted, love."

In your room, Emily's voice sounds incredibly humoured when she says, "Well, that didn't last long."

You've shed your heavy coat and kicked off your boots, rifling through a basket of clean clothes for something that won't completely swallow Emily's tiny arms and legs.

"What, my mum?"

"Your truce seemed rather short-lived, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't call it a truce, honestly. More like a momentary lapse in sanity. She's just so fucking annoying – I mean, you're clearly stood there, the bottoms of your pyjamas soaked through, and she's pleasantly oblivious to the urgency of the situation." Your back's to her as you sift through tee shirts and track bottoms, so you don't realise she's crossed the room until you turn towards the door to find Emily much closer, wearing a smirk that makes your hands perspire.

"Urgent situation, huh?"

More often than not, the sound of Emily's voice has such a pleasing lilt. But there are occasions, such as this, where the pitch of it swirls low in your gut – the sensation of having the inside of your stomach tickled.

"Yes, your clothes," you almost stutter, lamely holding three tee shirts in one hand while Emily starts unbuttoning her light blue pinstriped pyjama top. "They're all wet."

"Those for me?" she asks, a slight nod towards the bundle of clothes in your hand, though she's not stopped from the task at hand, nor has she looked away from holding your eye, and your mouth goes dry as more skin is revealed button-by-button.

You mean to respond by saying _'Yeah,'_ or to nod, at the very least, but you're maybe a better lesbian than you've given yourself credit for since what you do instead is drop the useless tee-shirts, slipping that hand between the opening of Emily's top and kiss her. With a _definite_ urgency.

You've been wrong about so much when it comes to Emily, when it comes to girls in general. But then, no. Not _girls_. Just Emily. Just this. Some of your earliest misconceptions have been so far off the mark, you could almost laugh at the absurdity of them. There's not been any mention of brogues or strap-ons, for instance, and you can't imagine ever having a need for them. Not with all the brilliant things you've discovered by way of Emily's hands and legs, her mouth and fingers.

Emily comes, under your fingertips. And it's maybe the most wrong you've been – the biggest lie you've told – that you didn't want to have her like this. Feeling her beneath you, it's impossible to remember how you'd ever managed to convince yourself of the lie for so long. She comes undone, and you watch her. She then dozes, and you keep watching her, still feeling some hazy disbelief that this is actually your life.

When you roll over onto your back, something cold and hard digs into your shoulder blade, and you grab for the offending object: your mobile. Your teeth find your bottom lip as the screen lights up to reveal sixteen missed calls and several unanswered texts from the girl now sleeping beside you. You turn just your head to look at her, smiling as you discard the phone without reading any of the messages, without listening to any of the frantic voicemails.

In an hour, Emily will wake in blind panic because she didn't mean to fall asleep, and Katie sure as fuck won't be willing to cover for her absence come Christmas morning. You'll walk her home, forcing her to bundle in several, _'excessive'_ layers of your clothing, and then you'll pause by the lamppost at the end of her street to say goodnight. To wish her a merry Christmas. To say you'll miss her in the morning. To tell her you love her. You'll tell her all sorts of things.

"Where were you off to?" she asks when you're stood together under the soft glow of the streetlamp, huddled against the chilled air.

It's getting easier to tell her things.

"Oh, I was coming to apologise, explain myself a bit better."

"Christ," Emily laughs, her smile something terribly attractive. "We're fucking hopeless, aren't we?"

"Looks that way," you nod, pulling her in closer by your hands linked around her waist.

Once you're again kissing her, feeling the soft sighs that fall from her mouth into yours, you think that, no, that's the wrong sentiment. _Hopeless_, you think, _would be to have not found each other at all._

* * *

Post script: Well, there you have it. Stay well. I'll be around again soon. xx script


End file.
